


Healing Touch

by ScribblingSquid



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabbles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 02:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribblingSquid/pseuds/ScribblingSquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written from Moran's point of view. Sometimes Moriarty shows up, beaten and bloody and no explanations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Moriarty slinks into the little apartment the two of you have been holed up in at about three in the morning. Covered in blood, of course. You say nothing, just go to get your kit. He rambles and rants as you wipe away blood, and dab alcohol on his cuts. He doesn't even slow down when you start sewing up the gash in his side. Your stitches are rough and the scar will be ugly. But, it's good enough. Moriarty insisted you give him a drink while you're in the middle of patching up his face. You get him a glass and pour out some whiskey. He downs it and continues talking at you. The bullet in his shoulder is too risky to remove, so you just make sure it heals and won't get infected.

"Thanks, Seb." By now, Moriarty has downed quite a lot of whiskey. One arm loops around your waist and pulls you close. You let him. No one tells Moriarty no. Not unless they wanted to die. He pressed his lips to yours. He tastes like blood and booze and vomit, but you know better than to pull away. Moriarty nibbles on your lip, reopening the gash in his own.

He brushes back your hair and smiles, his teeth bloody. "Put me to bed, little soldier." He likes to be carried about bridal style. You put him down on his rarely-used bed.

"Anything, else, boss?" Sometimes, when he was hurt bad, Moriarty liked to have you get in bed with him. Like a living, deadly teddy bear.

But, Moriarty had closed his eyes, crossed his legs. You were dismissed. You go back to the tiny kitchen and light a cigarette and wait for the next time Moriarty needed you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More drabbles.

No matter how bad Moriarty got hurt, you could usually patch him up just fine. You would insist on him devoting at least a couple days to recovering, forcing him to eat actual food. Moriarty would pout and whine, but you kept him cooperative by drugging him to hell and back. You would indulge his every whim to ensure his obedience.

Somehow this man, this dangerous deluded man had stolen your loyalty. You were just a paid gun, serving the highest bidder. But Moriarty was different. Maybe Moriarty did it because he couldn't resist a challenge. Stealing the crown jewels was nothing compared to chipping away at your defenses. Stealing your heart right out from under your nose.

Today Moriarty showed up at your flat, running an alarmingly high fever. You escorted him to his bed, despite his protests and threats. He swats away your hand when you try to lay a cool cloth on his sweaty brow. He refuses your drugged tea. When he's sleeping you strike. You quickly plunge the needle into his arm, before he can do anything to stop you. He sleeps soundly for the first time in months.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Has to do with The Reichenbach Fall, so spoiler warning, and things that it entails.

Some things just can't be fixed. You can't stuff his liquefied brains back in his head and patch his skull. You can't return the breath to his lungs or make his heart pump blood again. You know what happens when a bullet tears through a person's head. It's amazing there was that much left of your boss. His face mostly intact and terribly still.

You couldn't hope to fix this broken man, broken heart, broken in the head. Damaged even before he went up on that rooftop.

How could he do this to you? After everything you did for him, after he made you care about him?

You knew what Moriarty was. You knew how it would likely end. Yet you allowed yourself to get attached. You sit in the empty flat you once shared with Moriarty. The coffee you made was cold. Your cigarette lay on the ash tray, burned up to nothing.

Who was going to fix you?


End file.
